


it ain't so long before the dawn

by Trojie



Series: Inception Bingo 2016 [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 16:46:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7395523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They both have a bad habit of breaking their promises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it ain't so long before the dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Inception Bingo, prompt "broken promises"

'I expected you two hours ago,' says Arthur. He raises his eyebrow. 'Asshole.'

His espresso is still steaming in the cold, Wellington-winter air, though, so it isn't as if he's been sitting here for two hours pining like a jilted lover. 'You know how it is,' Eames says easily, and slides into his seat. 

They get through two more hours and a few more coffees discussing the job - _filmmaker, you probably know the one, surprisingly heavy militarisation for a man who looks like a barefoot hippie_ \- and then the rain that's been threatening starts coming down in earnest. The bricks paving Cuba Street are slippery, the perpetual puddles around the Bucket Fountain growing until the entire slick surface is a watery mirror of the lights thrown out of pub windows. It gets dark early around here, this time of year, but the tiny CBD stays busy until late. Arthur has to thread through the crowd spilling out of the night market. Eames follows him, hands in his pockets, head hunched into the collar of his coat, trying to keep the rain out of his eyes. 

'Fancy a nightcap?' he offers, when they reach Manners Street and look like parting ways. 

'We have work to do tomorrow,' Arthur points out. But he licks his lips, and that's not a no.

'We won't get drunk,' Eames promises.

Two hours later, they're both three sheets to the wind. Eames's hotel room is lit by nothing but soft yellowish lights recessed behind the headboard of the bed, and they make the last half-inch of liquid in the bottle of Ardbeg glow greeny-gold like a beetle's wings on the dressing table.

Arthur's sprawled out over the mattress, the duvet crumpled below him on the floor, and his head is hanging down over the edge. His legs are hooked lazily around Eames's hips; his eyes are dilated practically black, warm and unashamed, honest. Hungry. 'Fuck, Eames,' he pants. 'Oh, God, yeah, right there, like that, I want you to keep fucking me just like that -'

Eames feels as dizzy as Arthur sounds, blood pounding with too much good Scotch and good sex. He fists his hands in the sheets above Arthur's shoulders and bears down, tries to slow his pistoning hips as much as he can because it's better like this, drunk and inevitable. He wants to see Arthur lose everything all over himself, wants to see that dull shine in the warm half-light, wants to taste that bitterness over the bouquet of the whisky when he puts his mouth there and Arthur's taut stomach heaves under him, oversensitive and addicting.

Arthur is not a man who displays his animal underbelly, not without chemistry to help him along. He's not a man who goes back on his word, either. Not under normal circumstances.

'Come on,' Eames urges, presses a sloppy kiss to the stretched-long hollow between Arthur's collarbones. 'You know you want to.' He reaches one hand down and rubs his thumb at the leaking slit of Arthur's cock.

Arthur groans and comes in long, jerky splashes, arse clenching. His thighs slip down. Eames gives one more hard shove and follows suit. His head feels so heavy, he lays it in the hollow of Arthur's shoulder, and they make one two-backed, off-balance beast between them in the shadows on the wall. Eames is too fucked-stupid to be able to do anything about the fact that they're starting to slide off the mattress altogether. Arthur just about manages to halt their momentum with one hand, but that's all even he can do. 

They hang there, sweaty, smeary with Arthur's come between their bellies and Eames's slowly leaking from around his softening dick. Eames licks Arthur's throat, again and again, drunk, so drunk, wanting to move down and clean up all that nasty, tempting mess but, God, no moving. Perhaps ever again. 

'Stay?' he asks, instead. 

'Of course,' Arthur says sleepily. 

Eames knows what he means, though. Tomorrow, he's going to wake up and Arthur won't be there, and he won't be surprised.

You see, they always swear they won't do this.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I am once more taking advantage of the fact that there's nothing stopping me setting things in cities I actually know my way around.
> 
> The title is from "Fairweather Friends" by Queens of the Stone Age.


End file.
